Had not a chair received my falling form.
Pooh! That was but by way of illustration.
What right had he to illustrate his point
Upon my person? Was I his assistant
That he should try experiments on me
As Simpson did on his with chloroform?
Now, by the cannon balls of Galileo
He hath unmanned me: all my nerve is gone.
This very morning my official chief,
Tapping with friendly forefinger this button,
Levelled me like a thunderstricken elm
Flat upon the Colonial Office floor.
Fancies, coz.
Fancies! Fits! the chief said fits!
Delirium tremens! the chlorotic dance
Of Vitus! What could anyone have thought?
Your ruffian friend hath ruined me. By Heaven,
I tremble at a thumbnail. Give me drink.
What ho, without there! Bashville.
Without.
Coming, madam.
My cousin ails, Bashville. Procure some wet. Exit Bashville.
Some wet!!! Where learnt you that atrocious word?
This is the language of a flower-girl.
True. It is horrible. Said I “Some wet”?
I meant, some drink. Why did I say “Some wet”?
Am I ensorceled too? “Some wet”! Fie! fie!
I feel as though some hateful thing had stained me.
Oh, Lucian, how could I have said “Some wet”?
The horrid conversation of this man
Hath numbed thy once unfailing sense of fitness.
Nay, he speaks very well: he’s literate:
Shakespeare he quotes unconsciously.
And yet
Anon he talks pure pothouse.
Sir: your potion.
Thanks. He drinks. I am better.
Calling without.
Extra special Star!
Result of the great fight! Name of the winner!
Who calls so loud?
The papers, madam.
Why?
Hath ought momentous happened?
Madam: yes. He produces a newspaper.
All England for these thrilling paragraphs
A week has waited breathless.
Read them us.
Reading.
“At noon today, unknown to the police,
Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs,
Th’ Australian Champion and his challenger,
The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged
I’ the mercantile marine, fought to a finish.
Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer
Acted as referee.”
Lord Worthington!
“The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes
To hold the bottle for his quondam novice;
Whilst in the seaman’s corner were assembled
Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Snob.
Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt,
’Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken,
Looked none the worse in the Australian’s corner.
The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack:
His colors freely sold amid the crowd;
But Cashel’s well-known spot of white on blue—”
Whose, did you say?
Cashel’s, my lady.
Lucian:
Your hand—a chair—
Madam: you’re ill.
Proceed.
What you have read I do not understand;
Yet I will hear it through. Proceed.
Proceed.
“But Cashel’s well-known spot of white on blue
Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve,
When, with a smile of confidence upon
His ocean-beaten mug—”
His mug?
Explaining.
His face.
Continuing.
“The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch,
But found the champion there already. Both
Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers
Of their encouraged backers. Two to one
Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil;
And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed,
Found takers everywhere. No time was lost
In getting to the business of the day.
The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land
On Byron’s dicebox; but the seaman’s reach,
Too short for execution at long shots,
Did not get fairly home upon the ivory;
And Byron had the best of the exchange.”
I do not understand. What were they doing?
Fighting with naked fists.
Oh, horrible!
I’ll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end?
Was Cashel hurt?
To Bashville.
Skip to the final round.
“Round Three: the rumors that had gone about
Of a breakdown in Byron’s recent training
Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time
He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful,
Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend.
At this point six to one was freely offered
Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington
Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose
A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain,
Take down the number of the Panley boy.
The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is,
Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel
Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor,
Who, not to be denied, followed him up,
Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers.”
Oh stop—no more—or tell the worst at once.
I’ll be revenged. Bashville: call the police.
This brutal sailor shall be made to know
There’s law in England.
Do not interrupt him:
Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next?
“Forty to one, the Dutchman’s friends exclaimed.
Done, said Lord Worthington, who showed himself
A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet
Was booked, when, at the reeling champion’s jaw
The sailor, bent on winning out of hand,
Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert,
When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left,
Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick—”
Death and damnation!
Oh, what does it mean?
“The Dutchman went to grass, a beaten man.”
Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel!
“A scene of indescribable excitement
Ensued; for it was now quite evident
That Byron’s grogginess had all along
Been feigned to make the market for his backers.
We trust this sample of colonial smartness
Will not find imitators on this side.
The losers settled up like gentlemen;
But many felt that Byron showed bad taste
In taking old Ned Skene upon his back,
And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter,
Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd
The perfect pink of his condition”—A knock.
Turning pale.
Bashville
Didst hear? A knock.
Madam: ’tis Byron’s knock.
Shall I admit him?
Reeking from the ring!
Oh, monstrous! Say you’re out.
Send him away.
I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep
Secrets from me? I’ll punish him. Pray say
I’m not at home. Bashville turns to go. Yet stay. I am afraid
He will not come again.
A consummation
Devoutly to be wished by any lady.
Pray, do you wish this man to come again?
No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill.
He should have told me. I will ne’er forgive him.
Say, Not at home.
Yes, madam. Exit.
Stay—
Stopping her.
No, Lydia:
You shall not countermand that
